Despising myself for feeling that way, here is what I did to overcome it. I went out for a long ride in the car to think things through. On the way back to my apartment via Hollywood Boulevard, I stopped at a toy store that sold rubber masks. The walls of the place were unfortunately covered with familiar faces made of latex and fake hair. John Kennedy, Elvis, Santa Claus. I could readily decipher who the masks were supposed to portray, except for certain uncelebrated monsters with five eyes or a dwarf arm erupting out of the top of the head. But a number of them were very badly done. That is not what I wanted. For what I had in mind, I needed the face of someone I didn’t know.

The man who ran the store was a little bald guy who kept a constant cigarette going in a marvelous silver-and-black holder, a la Franklin D. Roosevelt.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes. I’m looking for a mask, but it’s gotta be of someone unfamiliar or unknown. Know what I mean? It can’t be Michael Jackson or Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

“How about one of Finky Linky?” He pointed to a face on the wall I’d already seen. There I was, in the rubbery flesh. The one-time famous Finky Linky. I smiled at the store owner and we shook hands.

“A very popular mask in its time, and still requested now and then. Very popular. You get your show syndicated and you live forever. This we all know, right? How’re you doin’, Finky Linky? I just want to tell you, my grandchildren loved your show, and I watched it right along with them a couple of dozen times myself. We miss you! You had the only good kids’ show on TV. Now it’s only Japanese space kid cartoons and big animals teaching you how to spell.

“But that’s another subject, and you got business here. How about Chernenko?” His eyes lit up. He had something cooking.

“Who?”

“I think I still got an Andropov too. Wait. I can probably sell you ten of each, if you want.” He began turning to some drawers behind the counter but stopped to ask a final question. “You’re not in the party, are you? I mean, I don’t do this stuff out of any kind of disrespect, you understand. It’s just business. Simply business.”

I was totally confused. “What party?”

“The Communist Party, what’d you think? Not that there’s much left of it. Here. Here’s the Chernenko and heeeere’s, yup, here’s the Andropov. I thought I still had some of each. Unfortunately. I probably will till the day I die.” He brought out masks from the drawers and handed me two old, anonymous faces. Although I didn’t know the men, the masks themselves were superb.

“Who are these guys? Are they famous?”

“For about five minutes each, much to my bitter dismay. Each was general secretary of the Communist Party Central Committee. Don’t you remember? For about a week apiece. Then each of the sons of bitches had the nerve to drop dead and I got stuck with twenty units I ordered.

“See, when Brezhnev was around, I sold a ton of him. People loved those eyebrows. That one big eyebrow going across the top of his head… a winner! When he croaked I sold five that day alone. Collectors. So naturally I thought the next boss of Russia would be a popular item too, and live as long, so I ordered twenty. That was Andropov, right? Or was it Chernenko first? I don’t know, I always get them mixed up. No matter. One came in right after the other but they were in charge only a couple of months before they died. Then they elected Gorbachev. And let me tell you, my thinking wasn’t so wrong there because I sell a lot of him, even today. A lot of Gorby.

“But you want unfamiliar, take your pick from these two old jerks. As I said, I can give you one hell of a deal if you want to buy a few of them. Your special Finky Linky price.”

Finky Linky needed only one and chose Chernenko, simply because it was in my hand at the time. After I’d paid and then signed the mask of me so the owner could put it up on his Wall of Fame at home, I left. Two steps out the door, I pulled the mask over my head to see how it felt. My plan was this. If I was going to make this trip, I knew there would be many times when I’d be scared and weak. That’s what the mask was for. I would keep it near me at all times and the moment I felt myself weakening or the fear coming, I’d put it on and let myself be scared or whatever. But after a certain time I would tell my fear that’s enough—it had to go now because I had other things to do. That seemed a fair deal with fear. Recognize and accept it fully, completely, totally. If it wanted me to shake or cry, so long as I was wearing the mask, I’d do it. But when its time was up, then it had to go away and leave me alone. Dying, I would split myself in two. Traveling, I’d take both me’s along and let each have its time of the day. But if I could be strong and a little lucky, then the weak me, Chernenko, would have less and less time. Like a child throwing a fit in the middle of the sidewalk—down flat on the pavement, kicking and screaming for the world’s pity and attention—he’d burn himself out in his own furious flames.

“Pardon me asking, but just what the fuck are you doing?”

The policeman was on a motorcycle at the curb in front of the store. Wearing a white helmet and reflective sunglasses, he gave me a smile that wasn’t a happy one. It was the smile of a person who has seen almost all and has very little humor or patience left for what he hasn’t. “Come here.”

I walked over, still wearing Chernenko.

“What were you doing in there, party boy?”

“Buying this mask.”

“What? Can’t hear you.”

“Buying this mask. That’s why I’m wearing it.”

“Issat right? Take it off.”

I took it off, and he wrinkled his forehead, as if somewhere in his macho brain he recognized me. “What else did you do?” He was a big man, whether from fat or muscle I couldn’t tell. When he shifted his body, the black leather jacket he wore groaned and complained quietly.

“I just told you, officer, I bought a mask. Go in and ask the man.”

“Don’t crack wise with me, party boy. Hand it here.”

Unlike many Angelenos, I like the Los Angeles police. The majority of them are hard-working, courageous people who do impossible work pretty well. Yes, they have a reputation for being storm troopers, but I would storm too if I had to do their job. That’s not to say I hadn’t had a few unpleasant brushes with troglodytes in uniform like this one: tough guys who held all the power cards and knew you knew it. A friend had once challenged one of them and ended up in L.A. County Hospital with a cracked skull. No, thank you. I’d give him my mask and let him be King for a Day if that’s what gave him a hard-on. There were more important things at hand.

“Oh-oh, what’s this? Blood?” He was off the bike and had his gun out so fast I barely had a chance to register what he’d said. Blood? What? Blood on my mask? From what? Had I shaved that morning? Suddenly I couldn’t remember. The fear came hard and fast as a cramp across the gut. I couldn’t remember something as simple as whether I’d shaved that day. Before these thoughts finished going through my head, he was standing next to me, his pistol against my temple.

“Move slow, friend. We’re gonna go slow back in there. Pull any shit and you’re dead.”

I put my hands up and let him push me back toward the store. Shock, panic, fear, and adrenaline all burst up through my body like fireworks, making me shake wildly.

“I don’t—what—”

“Shut up. Walk straight and don’t say another word till I find out what’s going on.”

Going on? What was going on? I’d bought a mask, had a little chat with the owner, walked out of the store—

“Open the door. Push it real slow and careful.”

I did. There was the body. Starfished in the middle of the narrow space near the cash register, the owner’s body lay in its final violence. His head was a splattered mess.